Blue Stone
by azure-tears
Summary: Maybe there's more to Milhouse than meets the surface. Maybe he isn't content just being the sidekick.


Disclaimer: Simpsons is not mine. And for the record, this turned into something completely different than I intended.

Blue Stone

**(Mihouse's POV)**

I've always been second in line, the sidekick. Usually, it doesn't bother me. I know I can't live up to his potential no matter how hard I try (and believe me, I try pretty damn hard). I'm Milhouse Van Houten and he's Bart Simpson, the guy on t-shirts and everywhere you want to be. Sure, he's not the most popular kid in school, but everyone knows his name. Everyone wants a part of him.

What about me? I'm the loser who winks at his sister and listens to his schemes, wondering why I'm not smart enough to come up with my own. I might look like a nerd, but when it comes to cleverness, Bart has me beat. If he didn't have ADD, he might really do well in school.

It's not just that he's smarter and more out there than me. It's that I'm forever in his shadow and I'm sick of it. No matter where I go, people ask me where my better half is like it's some sort of game. I'm the butt of jokes and the blue haired boy people love to pick on. Without Bart, I don't even have an _identity_.

That's the life of a sidekick. You don't see _his _face on comic books, unless it's small and indistinguishable. The only reason Robin has a following is because he joined the Teen Titans. Only the sidekicks who made their own teams make covers. I don't get an honorable mention.

His family's perfect, too. He doesn't have to worry about his parents competing for his love or spending the night in a broken down bachelor pad. Whatever bad things happen to him are an adventure and people regale in their descriptions. Me, people scoff and walk away. Whatever I have to say might as well stay in my head.

I used to think that if I made myself as available as Bart, people would notice me. They did…but not in the way I wanted. They laughed, mostly. I'm not important enough to draw anything but negative attention. I'm the secondary character whose sole purpose is to make the main character look good.

I'm whiny and pathetic, but if Bart whines and complains, I automatically make him look good. Any serious comments I make about life fall by the wasteside when he decides the topic is changed. No one gives a damn about what I have to say…or why I say it. I'm the annoying kid who won't stop calling, the kid who might be gay but we don't know, the one who never shuts up, the one who's utterly clueless, the one who gets ripped on and you don't feel the slightest bit sorry for him because he's such a loser. Yeah, that's me, lucky Milhouse.

It might sound bitter, but I've sort of gotten used to this. I'm used to being the one the stage lights missed, the one liner kid people shake their heads at. I can't be anything more than that they think. I can't secretly harbor a grudge against my best friend or wish myself dead because if I do…they'll completely ignore it anyway. Ha, hah, let's laugh at Bart now.

How long have I hated Bart, though? Honestly, I can't remember if I ever liked him to begin with. Whatever hero worship I had started to fade around two weeks since we met. It reappears once in a while, but for the most part, I hang around him because I don't have anyone else. I bury my resentment low enough so that no one catches it, not even Lisa. As long as I pretend I like him, people might give me a chance.

The bullies beat up Bart, but they like him too. It's a whole world filled with people who enjoy his antics and where does that leave me? Cold and in the dark. If I opened my mouth to tell him what I really feel, he'd walk away too. No one gives a damn, especially not if I'm in the minority.

Take my crush on Lisa, for example. It's only amusing when she snaps something cruel in response or runs away. It's the unrequited daydream of a ten year old boy who has nothing else to hold. I don't give up hope on her not because I think she'll come around, but because I know she won't. I know she won't give me the right time of day, but in my dreams, she will. And my dreams mean everything to me.

Bart's giving me a weird look right now and I think he's asking me if I'm okay. That's a laugh. He doesn't really care. He's tried his most dangerous tricks on me and when I got hurt, he'd wince and stow that plan away for next time. His apologies were like McDonalds hamburgers- pleasing at first but ultimately full of nothing natural. I've learned to tune those out.

He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes and for a second, I trip up. I glare at him and he jerks. Unmitigated loathing burns his face and I imagine it searing, flesh bubbling. His blue eyes scan mine and he shudders, apparently unsettled. Good, I've rocked something for once. Maybe he'll finally discover we don't all wear "I love Bart Simpson" t-shirts on our chests.

Then the look fades, but he's still guarded. I've let my precious secret slip and shown him my true face. The treehouse is utterly silent save for our breathing. In her room, Lisa stops playing with her Malibu Stacey to stare at us.

Bart shakes his head as if to clear it, but I've had enough of his company. Snatching my bag, I hoist it over my shoulders and bark out a stiff goodbye before descending the wooden planks. My life might be a game to him, but the true game is shoving my true self to the back burner. For now, the game's growing thin. He's already gained a point against my will.

"Wait," he says and leans over the edge. I narrow my eyes but stop, listening. Chances are, he has nothing I want to hear, but I'll be polite. Something flickers in his eyes, but it's too quick to catch. I long to laugh in his face and snarl my innermost loathing, but I shut my mouth hastily. He looks desperate.

"You don't hate me, do you?" he asks pleadingly. I smirk and then shove that to the side as well. I'm his only friend. If I hate him, then he might be miserable. He's got tons of admirers and well wishers, but no other friends.

Unfortunately, on the same token, I'm completely alone. Making him miserable might please me momentarily, but when my laughter dies down, I have no one. I can't risk it. It's a terrible relationship, but I've submitted it to time and time again. So I lie. I lie like I do every time he's caught me glaring at him or aching to break his wrists. I tell him he's imagining things and he relaxes.

The words come easily, like they have a thousand instances before, but that something flickers again and he stops me. My heart plummets into my stomach- he's not buying it. For once, Bart knows when he's being lied to. He's finally culminated those mistakes and come to a conclusion. That something flickers once again and I identify it- fear. He's terrified of what he's discovered.

"Look, I'm sorry…" The words die on his tongue. I smirk and realize the game's over. I can't tell him I don't hate him and he can't apologize for abusing me. We've both progressed past that. We can see through each other like glass.

And it's not me that's hiding behind him; _he's _hiding behind _me._ His lower lip trembles and I think he might try the pity cry, but I've lost my patience. Without me, he's got nothing. His jokes aren't funny because there's no one there to encourage the laughter. His pranks don't receive attention because I don't take the fall for him. The parasitic relationship is dying and all he can do is stand and gawk. Or crouch, whatever.

"Goodbye, Bart," I say, the only words I've said all afternoon. I pivot and stalk off, ignoring his plaintive pleas. Tomorrow we'll start the game all over again.

**…**

**(Bart's POV)**

I watch him walk off and flop onto my stomach in the treehouse. Lisa's still got her eye on me, like _I'm _the guilty one here. Okay, so usually I am, but this isn't my fault. I don't know where all that hatred came from…but it's bothering me. I've seen it before, too. I just don't know what to do about it.

I know I should feel bad when I mistreat him, but the only time I did was when he moved away. I guess you really don't know what you've got until it's gone. I shrug, unable to find any deeper meaning. Maybe I'll ask Lisa- she ought to know, if she's not too busy spying on me.

I scramble down the steps and frown, accidentally stepping on Santa's Little Helper's crap. As usual, Homer's forgotten to clean it up _again_. I scoff, wiping it off on his expensive grill. A smirk flits across my face, but I remember the expression on Milhouse's and it fades quickly. I have to talk to Lisa.

I track mud into the house, but disregard Mom's complaints. Why should I pay attention when I never have before? Besides, I know she'll clean it up. It might be another one of those things I take for granted, but eh. I probably take too many things for granted around here to count.

She knows what I want when I waltz up, but her eyes narrow like his. I shudder again, wondering how many people secretly dislike me. Unless I completely misinterpreted his look, which I'm starting to doubt. I've seen it too many times for it to be anything else.

Of course, she immediately starts in on me about the way I treat him, but that's not the answer I'm looking for. A fly zooms into the room through the open window and I trace its path, drawn inexplicably to creatures that hold absolutely no future merit. She shakes her head and tells me, at long last, that I don't know Milhouse at all. I immediately protest, listing numerous reasons why she's wrong and then rationalize the hatred in his eyes. I've imagined it, that's it.

Instead of outright arguing, she smiles sadly and leads me out the door. I stare at the closed door for a good while, wondering what on earth she was getting at and then deciding, like usual, it doesn't concern me. I go off to play video games.

**…**

**(Milhouse's POV)**

Lisa's watching me again and sometimes, I think she knows more than she lets on. She offers me a sad smile and wanders towards the library, her solitude. I wish books comforted me the way they do her, but I'm stuck out here with a person I can't stand. Intellect is a gift I'd love to be burdened with.

Bart hasn't caught on yet, fortunately. His words wash over me insignificantly and I lean back against the tree. We're still playing, you know. Only the game isn't much fun anymore. I won't stop…I have no choice. Maybe sooner or later, someone will see me as a person worthier than Bart, but I doubt it. For now, I'll play this one out. You never know.

**…**


End file.
